"Very normal ones. I have sex with them because I want to, and for no other reason." She pointed to a painting on the wall. It was a ghetto scene, quite well done. Shades of blue had created a strange, uneasy effect, in sharp contrast to the comfort of the room.

"One of my boyfriends painted that. He's a struggling young artist. When you said you had a friend in the Navy, I thought you might have meant him, but I knew he wouldn't have given you my number."

" No, I don't think it was him," I said. Long pause. "

"I have no hangups now, because I haven't gotten so involved in this thing. I can't afford to become emotionally involved, or I'd end up in Mattapan [Boston State Hospital]. I think my children have helped to keep me fairly stable.

"Besides, I don't associate socially with other girls in the business. Most of my friends are 'squares.' They're

not 'in the life' as we say. They lead conventional 9 to 5 lives.

"I'll probably give this life up in about a year," she told me. "I'm interested in real estate, and intend to start studying business administration at Northeastern the first of the year."

I asked Angela if she'd been able to save any of her earnings, since she said she was grossing over $1000 a week.

"I care too much about myself to do the things that I have to do in my work, and then end up with nothing, so I save," she said. "And besides, I have the children to worry about."

She spoke of a customer, a psychiatrist, who she said had been imprisoned in a German concentration camp during the war. He would ask her to dress him up in a bra, garters, panties, and high heels, and then insisted upon being whipped into unconsciousness. He always brought smelling salts for her to revive him with.

Angela talked also of a wealthy North Shore businessman who would pay her $200 every Thursday afternoon for the privilege of cleaning her apartment. She said it was "like babysitting." He would be semi-nude-clad only in a short apron-and she was expected to order him around, occasionally beat him, and "generally just play the dominant role."

I asked her how she liked her work.

"I don't imagine a surgeon enjoys cutting someone open, but it's needed. My job's needed, too, and I have to do it," she answered. "It's the world's oldest profession, you know. Three-fourths of my clients are married men," she told me. "Most of them haven't slept with their wives in years, though. Maybe they share the same room, but then they have separate beds. Or else, their wives are just cold, and won't do the things for them that I will. The only reason my men continue to live at home is for their kids' sake. But they need an outlet, and I provide it. You know, I think that we [prostitutes] are responsible for keeping a lot of married couples together."

The radio disc jockey announced the second hour. It was like an alarm clock. Back to real life-the show's over. I almost expected a commercial.

"Listen, you'll have to excuse me, but I have to get to the bank before it closes, and then go out shopping before my children come home. We can't live on TV dinners and frozen asparagus," she said, as if on cue.

I rose to go. One last question. I smiled, and tried to ask as nicely as I could, if she ever felt personally degraded in her work.

"No, it's not what you do, but how you do it." she answered. "All women are really prostitutes. They do it because it's part of their duty. If they want a new hat, they'll butter up their husbands that day, be especially nice to them, and particularly good in bed. If they don't want anything, then they won't.

"And, all I do is get paid for it," she concluded.